Page 27 of Fence

“But you can’t swear anything else, can you? That’s all you can be honest about.”

He reached for my hand, which I’d rested on the table, but I recoiled like his touch burned. It did, a little, but it wasn’t my hand he hurt. It was my pride. I didn’t want to hurt anymore.

Only I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing, exactly, and I knocked over my wine glass and flinched when it shattered against my plate. The sort of thing I did on a regular basis. This time was different. This time, Fence tried to clear the glass away from me—and winced when a large, transparent shard sliced the heel of his hand.

“Oh, no!” I grabbed his wrist and pulled out the glass without thinking about the possible danger to me, then wrapped my napkin around the wound. A person as clumsy as me had to be well-versed in first aid.

“It’s okay,” he said, waving off the attention of other diners.

Blood soaked into the tablecloth and had already stained the makeshift bandage, but he swore he was all right as he stood up. “I should go take care of this.”

“I’ll come with you.” It was all my fault, after all. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

“No, no, I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’ll go back to the hotel and use their first aid kit, something like that.” He pulled out his wallet with his good hand and tossed a stack of bills onto his chair without stopping to count them.

When I realized he was serious about leaving, I grabbed my coat and ran after him.

“You need stitches! It’s a deep wound!”

“It’ll be all right. I promise you. Don’t worry about it.”

Why was he practically running away from me? And why, oh why, was I practically running to keep up with him? In heels, no less. Was I begging for a broken ankle? Maybe worse? I couldn’t let him get away. That was all I knew.

“What is it with you?” I nearly screamed, putting on a burst of speed and finally catching him when he paused at the corner. The crisp air turned my breath into a cloud around my head and burned its way down my throat as I gasped, staring at his wounded hand.

His suspiciously unwounded hand.

He’d wiped away much of the blood while his back was turned to me, and it was clear that what had been a deep, gushing wound was suddenly a shallow cut.

It wasn’t even bleeding anymore. In less than four minutes, maybe less, he’d magically healed.

Magically.

I looked up at him, shocked and stunned and scared half out of my mind.

“Who the hell are you, Fence?”

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